Run, Screaming
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: Castiel shares a room with a boy called Stan, they don't talk much. The spare bed above Castiel's is just sort of there, and then Dean and Sam's parents die in a fire the burns down their house along with everything they own. Two days later, Dean is in the spare bed above Castiel's. Human AU. Rated T for eventual suggestions of boys being boys (of the homosexual/bisexual variety).
1. Chapter 1

**First Supernatural story, woop woop.**

* * *

The bell rings shrill and high over the thick chatter of everyone moving towards their various rooms, pushing past one another and saying goodnight.

An elbow finds Castiel's side with just the right amount of force to be annoying, "Sorry," they call over their shoulder, not looking him in the eye, not even checking up on the person that they just knocked out of the way. Castiel doesn't reply, just pushes open the door to his room.

He steps over the wad of PE kit shoved into a stack of shoes, and does not make eye contact with Stan, who sits in the left hand corner of his bunk, earphones mashed in as he plays his music just loud enough for a beat to be discerned.

Castiel stands in front of his desk, removes his jacket, his shirt, his tie. Removes his shoes, his socks, his pants. Lifts his towel off the hook, picks up his shampoo and soap, walks down the corridor, and locks himself in the bathroom.

The pile of soggy paper towels flows over the side of the trash can, to stick in bits to the mottled blue linoleum floor of the bathroom. There is not enough room to have the door of the shower open a the same time as the main door. It doesn't matter really. He reaches around the little alcove to drop his underwear on the closed toilet seat, and hangs his towel up in grasping distance from the shower door. Safe from the slick floor.

The shower gets hot quickly. He is on a lower floor so the water pressure is better than last year. Only one person to share a room with as well, he might not be that lucky twice.

He inches the heat to scald his skin, nudging the shower handle more and more to press how much he can take. It feels good, drums on his skin and his flesh, soaks his skin in feeling.

He shuts the water off in just under ten minutes and hooks his towel around his waist and shivers as he opens the door.

Drops the underwear in his laundry bag.

Puts the soap on his shelf.

Pulls out a new pair, puts it on.

Pyjama shirt. Towel dry hair.

He picks up his book from his desk and sits with his knees nudged up between his chest and the harsh wood. To Kill A Mockingbird is nearly over, only a few hundred pages from here until it closes, so he slows down a little bit. He picks out a packet of candy from his drawer, nibbling around the edges as he scans the words, and then sucking on the smooth insides. He puts the packet back, folded over at the top.

At 11.15 he gets up and turns out the light. The bland glow of Stan's laptop guides him as he picks his way back to roll into bed.

It is not difficult to sleep.

The echoing siren of the morning bell shoves him out of sleep. He lies inside the warm roll of his bed for another moment, and then sticks a leg out, and then a second, into the cool morning air. Almost without thinking he tugs on a shirt and a pair of pants, rubbing slowly at his eyes between tasks to coax them completely open.

He walks over and puts a hand on Stan's bed to lean and nudge him awake. He says his name with varying degrees of urgency, eyes flicked upwards, bored with the monotony of it all. Stan blinks awake with a mumbling groan and his limbs thud against the carpeted floor. "I'm awake," he announces unconvincingly, and then stares into space for a full minute as Castiel lays out his books for the first three morning lessons, and goes to brush his teeth.

When he returns, Stan is tugging a crumpled shirt over his head, and Mrs Watts, the matron, is tugging dutifully at the corners of Castiel's bed. She looks up as the heavy door swings shut.

"Oh, Castiel dear, there's a new boy and his younger brother coming today. I said you would show them around, well the older one. The younger one will stick to someone his own age."

She moves to tug the curtains open, "I'll just open a window, its a bit stuffy in here, isn't it," she smiles at him, "Bit stuffy," she trails off again.

She's a saggy, rounded woman, but the amount of energy in her always surprises Castiel.

Stan knocks over an errant pile of books from the perilous edge of his desk and swears, just barely remembering to quiet it at the last second.

"Watch your language," she reprimands, a laugh lightening her words.

"Sorry, Mrs Watts," he mumbles as he picks up his spewed papers and shoves them onto his shelves, filed between dog eared binders.

"Oh I'm fine, just don't let Mr. Peckett hear you dropping words like that or you'll be in for a bit of trouble."

He nods, unconcerned, and Mrs Watts turns back to Castiel. "So get some breakfast, and then just go and see the headmaster, and you can show him to all his lessons. He's going to come and stay in here for a while, you two have a bit of room. Its only until next term, don't worry," she nudges Stan lightly, fake purple nails no doubt leaving dents in his shoulder.

"I won't, Mrs Watts," he sighs, and eyes the empty bunk above Castiel's, betrayed by its existence.

Castiel puts his toothbrush and toothpaste away, and sits at his desk to wait for Stan to be finished getting ready.

Mrs Watts leaves.

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**I'm afraid this is largely based around my boarding school experience. Well, except for the boring room mate. I have fun. **

**I know this chapter was just kind of a nothing intro, but Dean will arrive, guns blazing (figuratively, I promise) next chapter. I hope some of you stay around for a bit, tell me what you think. **

**There will be an interesting mix of American and English language/slang in here because I'm just between both at the moment. My American accent is leaving me, and I can't actually tell which is which anymore, I'm really sorry. So feel free to tell me if I'm doing something wrong. **

**Thanks for reading.**

**xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey ya'll. This has been updated crazy fast, but this is a kind of 'get well soon' sanity-wise present for the dear ArthurDent2 who just finished her crazy exam revision.**

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Breakfast consolidates low in his stomach as he knocks three times on the Headmaster's door. Meeting new people is not exactly high on a preferred activities list for him, but the wood disappears from under his knuckles, and he is face-to-neck with the Headmaster and his bland, bland smile.

"Castiel, hello," he murmurs, head bent low so as to fit as much of himself into Castiel's personal space as possible, "Just on time." He blinks, once. Twice. Reinvigorates his smile in case it drops completely off his face while he's not paying attention.

"Hello, Sir," replies Castiel. He does not look around the Headmaster, does not try and catch a glimpse of the new boy. He tries not to think about the large expanses of time he will have to spend with him, making conversation and sharing space with him.

His parents have just died, its not exactly going to be easy.

"This is Dean."

The man taking up all the space between him and his new roomate steps aside and all of a sudden the space where he existed is gone and the reality is that Castiel is here and now, and he will have to live with this boy.

He's - uh - pretty. And rough, like he hasn't slept in weeks. But he has, obviously.

He looks like he's ready for a fight, with that kind of dying energy kids that first get here have. Feral and spiked and violently wounded.

It is unsettling and Castiel does not want to be alone with this person.

Castiel doesn't smile, he knows that he wouldn't want to be smiled at. He just says his name, because that's the only thing he can think of saying at the moment, "Dean."

Dean stares, stiff, hands low at his sides. Humming static with the energy that would send some people beating a tattoo with their fingers on their thighs, or jiggling their leg, or hiding. But this is not the terror of being caged, but the knowledge that if he fought he would win.

Castiel does not reach to shake his hand.

The Headmaster, suddenly very present, claps them both on the shoulder. Dean stands up minutely taller.

Castiel winces at the step forward he has to make to accommodate the extra force.

"So, Dean. I know this is a hard time for you, but Castiel, and all of us here at Angel Guardian Orphanage, just want to make this difficult, difficult time in your life, just a little easier."

He attempts to look soulfully between Dean and Castiel.

Castiel wonders if that speech has ever worked on anyone, ever. Dean wonders the same. They blink at the spaces just to the right of each others eyes, and recognise this split second unity.

A schedule is pressed weakly, but urgently into Dean's reluctant hands, and he takes a pencil from his pocket and scrawls his name across the top of it, leaning on what appears to be his only book. Its a ragged book of A4 lined paper with nonsense doodle scribbled over the shining surface.

Castiel leads the way out of the office and into the hallways, dodging meandering groups of students, with Dean trudging in step with him.

"What class do you have first?" begins Castiel, tentatively.

"English."

One word answers. Okay. That's fine. "I think we'll have most of the same classes then. Do you have math after that?"

"Yeah."

"Well we can walk there together as well," he decides. Dean looks side to side at the students milling around in clumps against the walls outside their classrooms, "They all like us?"

His breath catches before the pronoun and he stumbles over the identification.

"Most of them," explains Castiel. "Some are teachers' children."

They come to a stop outside room 106.

"So this is English. Its Mrs Ness. She might make you introduce yourself to the class," he warns. His eyes catch Dean's properly for the first time, apologetically. The green of them catches him by surprise. "No one will be listening, though."

"Do I have to do this every class?" he asks. Full sentence. And a question.

"Maybe. Mr Simmons won't make you, he doesn't care," says Castiel as he pushes open the door to the classroom.

Before they walk in, he catches Dean's eyes again, and there's the barest hint of a nod to show he's okay, almost as if he isn't quite aware that he's doing it.

Castiel's second-hand nervousness that he's been feeling for Dean all morning lightens a bit.

* * *

**Yay Dean is here. **

**I dunno if my characterization is on point. Any kind of attempt at writing for Supernatural fics has failed miserably in that department, so I really hope this is at least some version of them. **

**I am actually really liking all the support characters at the moment. They're all gonna be based on people from my actual school and stuff because I'm really stressed because the end of the year is coming up and everyone is panicking and the workload is increasing x200 so I'm just gonna stick to what I know at the moment.**

**Deep breath in. Deep breath out.**

**We're good.**

**Tell me what you think. xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**I have**

**so much**

**schoolwork to do**

**right now.**

* * *

"Dean Winchester."

His smile is open, slow, smooth, a mile away from where he was before - dangerous and ready to slash holes in reality to get back to where he was before.

"I'm an aquarius, I enjoy long walks on the beach, beautiful sunsets, and frisky women."

He announces this with his head cocked, and eyes bright.

Castiel watches the entire class laugh, a few giggles. One girl sits back in her chair and takes a long look at him.

It must be the way he has his hands shoved in the pockets of his long leather jacket, and his smile that tells you that you're part of something. Dean Winchester is one of those people who performs, who makes everyone around them feel like they should be better just to measure up to him.

Or not even measure up to him, just to be his friend.

"That's about it," he finishes.

Dean shuffles his foot against the floor, watching the toe, black against the mottled, yellowing linoleum, and then pulls his gaze up to watch the room from under his lashes, charm sparking at his eyes and the curve of his lips.

That's about it then, it seems. Dean doesn't glance at the teacher to assess whether or not he should say more, like some of the more timid kids that end up here. But he doesn't strut with an arrogance that outright defies authority either, which is new. He doesn't quite fit into either end of the spectrum, with his light glances at pretty girls, and the slow swagger to his walk.

Castiel had been worried, before Dean opened his mouth in front of the entire class, about the vacant seat next to Daneil in the second row. Daneil wears sweatshirts and leans back to balance on two chair legs while teachers make important points that will help them through exam season. He flicks smiles at girls with simple ease, and some girls smile back.

To get to the seat next to Castiel, Dean will have to walk through three rows of steady, judging eyes, and sit next to rumpled, studious Castiel.

He would've had to make that decision and Castiel knew who he would choose.

But now it is no longer an issue. Dean is the kind of boy who is not right for Castiel, they could never be friends properly, and now Castiel is thankful for the now non-existent hours trying to force pleasant company.

He doesn't have to do it with Stan, and now he won't have to do it with Dean, they can just ignore eachother.

And so Dean walks down the aisle of students, whispering to each other, laughing, watching. He smiles at a couple of girls, winks at another - Rebecca, whose dark eyeliner smudges across her eyelids and matches the wild, spiked ink of her hair - and sits down next to Castiel. His one book slaps down on the desk, and his chair squeaks against the rough drag of the linoleum. Castiel looks straight ahead, focusing on Rebecca, who has reset her hand on her chin and is glazed-eyed staring at the ceiling. There's nothing much to keep him from having to look at Dean, legs spread long in front of him as he fishes out a pencil from the inside of his pocket. And so he does, and Dean smiles at him, between keeping steady eye contact with the girl next to Castiel. A real smile.

Castiel manages a small one back. He knows he doesn't quite look like he's smiling. People have said that, that he looks like he doesn't know how to arrange his face to a look of happiness. Doesn't know how to have fun.

The way Dean has looked at every girl in the class suggests he knows how to have a good time.

* * *

**Silence in the room**

**Everyone tap tap typing**

**Getting their shit done**

**- a short haiku by me all of you should appreciate it**

**Also I forgot I have so much trouble writing Dean so ya'll should thank ArthurDent2 for her helpful suggestions and guidance. And also for the fact that this story exists. **

**Also I have nothing else to say. I'll remember what I wanted to say as soon as I post this but whatever.**

**Thanks for reading. **


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